


Out of Town

by audreyii_fic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Romance, slight crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2580596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyii_fic/pseuds/audreyii_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane Foster and Darcy Lewis are stuck on Asgard. Thor and Loki are back on their home turf. Asgardians have no idea what to make of their princes' new friends -- and what <i>is</i> a Pop-Tart, anyway? <i>(Drabble collection sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1512575/chapters/3196208">Ordinary Love</a>. Now accepting prompts.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wherein Thor gives a toast and Jane smashes a mug.

**Redgryphon: Asgardian table manners! Throw that cup Jane! Throw it!**  
 **Vaneria Potter: When in Asgard… Asgard customs are very different to Midgard customs**

  
  
  
_I planned to wait until after NaNo to start this sequel. Maybe even until the new year. But sometimes you just need your freakin’ crack!fluff._

_You’ll probably want to read[Ordinary Love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1512575/chapters/3196208) before starting. But if you don’t mind missing the exhibitionist smut and video games, the basics are this: a) Thor and Loki got banished to New Mexico for awhile and more or less worked out their issues, b) the Bifrost is gone with Jane and Darcy stuck on Asgard, c) Jane and Loki have all the sex but are still in kind of uncertain ‘relationship’ mode, and d) Darcy and Thor are besties due to pop culture bonding and mutual disinterest in angst._

_Last note: this series, like Ordinary Love before it, will be primarily prompt-based. Got an idea? Don’t hesitate to share :D_

_So we’re good? We’re good._

 

  
 _Wherein Thor gives a toast and Jane smashes a mug. (Humor/Romance. PG-13.)_

  
  
  
The first thing Jane learns about Asgardians is that they can throw a party together _really_ quickly.

She would have liked to have spent her first night on the _other side of the universe_ (seriously, is she really here? Decades of work and tears and stargazing and she’s _done_ it) doing… well, really anything. Exploring. Taking notes. Getting to the highest building possible and charting every single new constellation she can find.

Stuffed in a crowded sweltering hall that’s taken all its decorating cues from medieval Europe surrounded by a thousand shouting drunk people who keep goggling at her and Darcy while covered in dust and sweat and bloodstains? Wouldn’t even have been in her top twenty choices.

Not that it’s completely awful. Thor’s clearly ecstatic to be home, and she’s never seen Loki so relaxed. (She _knows_ he’s relaxed because she can literally feel it, having been in his lap since the moment they sat down. Which she suspects has a lot to do with the staring.) And Darcy—

Darcy prods Jane in the side, grinning. “This beer,” she says, mug in hand, face flushed. “Have you tried this beer? This is _great_ beer.”

“I’m not a beer person.”

“You’ll change your mind for this stuff. Seriously, try it. It’s  _awesome_.”

Loki’s chuckle vibrates against Jane’s back. “If you like the ale,” he tells Darcy, “wait until the mead begins to flow.”

“ _Cool_.”

Darcy’s quickly pulled off into another conversation with Thor, who’s introducing her to about fifty people a minute. Jane’s not sure if Loki’s supposed to be doing the same for her, but she’s glad he’s not. “You will enjoy the mead as well, Jane Foster,” he says, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. On his lap they’re the same height. “I will be… interested to learn your reaction to it.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Loki only grins.

It’s been a mess of a day, but one thing’s for sure: Jane is _so_ glad he’s not dead.

Glad enough that she hasn’t minded the way he’s been stroking her thigh for the last ten minutes, even when making conversation with whoever comes over to talk to him (a whole lot fewer people, Jane has noted, than come to talk to Thor). But now his fingers have moved to the button of her jeans and it’s time to intervene. “Knock it off,” she hisses to him, grabbing his wrist before he can pull down her zipper. “It was bad enough being porn stars in Puente Antiguo. I am _not_ going to provide a bunch of free HBO to a whole new planet.”

But Loki just chuckles again — before saying in her ear: “This isn’t Midgard, Jane Foster. I could take you here on the banquet table and no one would bat an eye.”

Jane swallows. “I kind of doubt that.”

“Doubt all you wish. You’ll learn our ways soon enough.” Yeah, he’s definitely gloating now. “But if the idea discomfits you — for now — there’s no reason anyone need see or hear.” And he takes his hand from between her legs (which she is _not_ disappointed about) and makes a quick gesture at her mug of beer.

The mug vanishes.

It  _vanishes_.

Jane’s mouth drops open. “Did you do that?”

“I did.”

Fascinated, Jane reaches to where her beer had just been sitting. Her fingers brush the invisible ceramic side, and with a little shimmer of gold, the mug returns to sight. “Oh, my God,” she breathes.

“Hold still.” Another gesture, and the mug is gone again — along with Jane’s hand, right up to the wrist.

She squeaks in shock and yanks back instinctively. Her hand turns visible the moment she does. There might be a conversation later over not disappearing body parts without a warning, but for now, Jane’s too amazed to care. “It’s got to be changing the light refraction. It’s light refraction, right?”

“It’s magic. And it has many practical applications.” Loki hitches her a little closer, and she can feel him half-hard against her backside. “Shall I demonstrate a few of them?”

Jane definitely isn’t about to agree — really — when the blond guy, the one with two women on _his_ lap, calls from his seat across the table: “I see you’ve finally found someone impressed by your little tricks, Loki!”

A few people nearby laugh.

Loki’s embrace stiffens slightly. But his voice is light as he calls back: “Not all of us need compensate with a lengthy _blade_ , Fandral!”

More laughter, including from Fandral himself. He raises his mug in salute. “Well-played. But if your lovely mortal loses interest in illusions and decides to seek solid swordplay, you _will_ remind her of Fandral the Dashing, will you not?”

It’s like the time in her freshman year at Cal Tech when her first astrophysics professor told her she’d watched Star Trek one too many times. The whole class had laughed just like this. And it wasn’t the last time, either. “We’ve had ‘solid swordplay’ on Earth for millennia,” Jane snaps. “There’s nothing to study in _that_.” To Loki she says: “Show me again.”

Loki obediently vanishes the mug once more. “Light refraction,” she mutters, putting a decade of mockery out of her mind. “I need a mirror.”

“Whatever you wish,” murmurs Loki.

Fandral just shrugs off Jane’s criticism and turns his attention to Darcy (who, Jane hasn’t failed to notice, has been watching the exchange). “And you, pretty one? Are all Earth maidens as fair as you?”

Darcy smiles. “Nope.”

“Come then, love.” He pushes the pouting women off his lap and beckons. “Sit by my side and tell me your tales of Midgard.”

“Nah,” says Darcy. She takes another swig. “No offense, but you seem like kind of a dick.”

Once again, the entire table bursts into laughter — and no one louder than Thor (though Loki’s close). “Darcy Lewis is too much for the sorry likes of you, Fandral,” he says. “She is wise beyond all things.”

Sif, sitting on the other side of Thor, looks at her beer like she could freeze it with the force of her glare.

Loki snickers, but — Jane has to give it to him — not in a mean way. “Before the week is out,” he whispers to Jane, “Darcy Lewis will have her own statue at the palace gates.”

Jane doesn’t get a chance to reply before Thor’s climbing right on top of the table, mug in hand. “I have been remiss,” he announces, voice booming through the hall. Everyone immediately falls silent; looks like there are benefits to being a prince. “A toast, my friends: a toast to the women who sheltered my brother and I in our exile. Who helped us, who taught us, who guided us through a strange land when we were lost and powerless. Without their knowledge and cleverness, we would not be here amongst you on this day.” He raises his beer. “We drink to the health of Darcy Lewis, bestie of Thor Odinson, and Jane Foster, consort of Loki Odinson.”

Now Jane gets a whole lot of new stares. Many of them aren’t good.

And, hey, when did she actually _agree_ to this whole ‘consort’ thing? Is there a job description somewhere?

Volstagg looks as confused as she feels. “No, truly, what  _is_ a bestie?”

Loki reaches around her to lift his own drink. “To Darcy Lewis and Jane Foster,” he adds. “May they receive from our realm all the welcome and acclaim that is their rightful due.” Unlike Thor, there’s an edge of warning to his words.

Jane glances at Darcy, who shrugs and drains her beer along with everyone else.

Thor’s done first. He winks at Jane, grins broadly, and throws his mug to the stone floor. It shatters on impact. “Another!” he shouts.

Suddenly the hall is filled with flying cups and the sound of smashing. _“Another!” “Another!” “Another!”_

“It must  _suck_ to be part of this cleaning crew,” Darcy comments to Jane. Not that that stops her from tossing her own.

This is so weird.

Jane hasn’t been drinking herself, but Loki hands her his empty mug. “Throw it.”

“Uh…”

“Go on. I learned your ways, and now you will learn mine.”

“I’m not sure ‘learning my ways’ is what you did, Loki.” Still, he’s kind of got a point. When in Rome, right?

Jane throws the mug to the floor with all her strength.

It explodes.

Okay, that was _really_ satisfying.

And Loki’s back to nuzzling the side of her neck. “I am going to take you to bed now,” he informs her.

“Sounds good.” If he keeps touching her like this she’s in real danger of submitting to the whole public sex thing (again). A bed is a definite improvement. A _real_ bed, she assumes, not the foam mat of the trailer. There are a lot of possibilities in that.

But before they can even get to their feet, a guard bursts into the hall, throwing open the huge doors with a clatter. “The All-Father has awakened!” he shouts. “The Odinsleep has ended once more!”

An enormous cheer goes up from the crowd.

Thor and Loki glance at each other.

“Um,” says Thor.

“Um,” says Loki.

And Jane kind of suspects there’s about to be a raincheck on the bed thing.

 

 

 


	2. Wherein the sons of Odin get a stern talking-to.

**Asterisk Blue: “Odin, much has happened in your sleep.” “Tell me, Frigga, what of my sons?” “They returned with Midgard with two humans and one of their creations, a thing called ‘Pop-tarts.’ It is a food.” “I will try these ‘Pop-tarts’ later, Frigga. For now, let me speak with my sons.”**

**siesiegirl: Odin is bound not to approve of Jane and Darcy. Loki and Thor need to go to bat for their girls. ;)**

**xSUPERGIRLx: Who remembers when Odin called Jane a goat? Let’s have him comparing our lovely Jane and Darcy to farmyard animals and our boys having something to say about it :)**

**Vaneria Potter: Frigga wanted her sons to be happy. Odin had loftier expectations.**   
  
  
  


_Wherein the sons of Odin get a stern talking-to. (Family. PG.)_

_(Sorry, Asterisk: didn’t manage the Pop-Tarts.)_  
  
  
  
  
  
The day Odin allowed Frigga to teach Loki was the first day he sacrificed his realm for his family.

_He must have something_ , his wife had insisted, a challenge in her eye, her words (as they often were) a sharp but subtle weapon. _Thor casts a large shadow. Would you deny your second son a light of his own?_

The denial sat upon the tip of the All-Father’s tongue. Loki was meant to learn the ways of the Aesir, to develop a connection to these people, to love Thor as a brother, and to take that connection and that love to the throne of Jotunheim. He would bring about a permanent peace between their worlds. He was born to be a king, and a king he would be. Loki, the prince of the Jotuns, the first son of Laufey. Not the second son of Odin.

Yes. There the denial sat.

But the lie would not be spoken.

For in his heart, as in the heart of his wife, Odin had two children. Two children whom he loved. Though now only _one_ could be king.

The ruler yielded to the parent. Loki learned Frigga’s magic. And from that moment on the All-Father’s plans for Jotunheim no longer mattered.

 

***

 

Frigga won that battle, as she won many. But she did not win them all.

_Banishment! Exiled to a world of mortals, stripped of their powers! How could you have done this?_

_Do you understand what they have set in motion? They have taken us to the brink of war!_

_They are your sons! They are **my** sons! _ _**Both** my sons!_

_And you see them through clouded eyes! Thor courts bloodshed without a thought to consequence. Loki whispers poison for his own spiteful gain. One reckless, one devious, both dangerous — where do you imagine this path will lead?_

_And rather than guide them from their errors you would lose them forever?_

_Is it only you who feels pain, woman? I, too, grieve the loss of our sons! But I will not risk the nine realms falling to ruin and death because of two vain, greedy, cruel boys!_

But the duties of a king did not sway the love of a mother. _Do not forget who I am, Odin All-Father._ The Queen’s face flashed, her hands flashed, the walls trembled at the force of a sorceress’s rage. _Do not think your power so much greater than my own._

Odin had been intending to sleep after Thor’s coronation. He had put it off for too long already, and falling unplanned could have disastrous consequences. But the invasion of the vault… the battle with Jotunheim… the exile of his sons… the fury of his wife…

_I am Frigga, Queen of Asgard and mistress of mages. My children **will** be returned, or the ruin and death you fear will be visited tenfold upon these worlds._

The void beckoned.

_They must find a new path,_ he had whispered. _Their fates are in their own hands now._

Odin slept.

 

***

 

His wife had been at his side when he woke. _Much has happened,_ she told him, as though their conversation had never ended. _I am still angry. But I should not have forgotten that there is purpose to everything you do._

And he had smiled. _I will speak with them alone._

 

***

 

It both gladdens and grieves Odin to see the anxiety in the way his sons kneel before the throne. Princes ought fear their King. Sons ought not fear their father.

But he cannot be both at times like this. “Rise,” he commands.

They do, and they wait in silence. Odin allows them a moment of uncertainty — which will surely do them no harm — before he nods. “Welcome home,” he says.

As always, his elder son’s reaction is more visible than his younger’s; Thor grins broadly, while Loki only blows out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Father,” says the latter. “It was a… trying period.”

“Trying is the right word. You were tried. You were tested. So show me: did you pass?”

Thor holds out his hand; it only takes a moment for Mjolnir to fly to his grasp, as though forged for his grip.

Loki raises his palm and conjures a small, glistening globe of golden light.

Once their expressions would shine with superiority at such demonstrations of power. Now it merely _is_ a demonstration, nothing more. No arrogance shines from their souls.

They have learned.

They are worthy.

“I am proud of you both,” Odin tells them.

Now even Loki cannot conceal his pleasure. And Thor — Thor, his reckless firstborn — says: “Father, we are sorry. For our behavior on Jotunheim, and for that which came before it.” (Loki stiffens slightly at the mention of the ice world. Frigga spoke of their son’s question; it must be answered — and soon — but not this day.) “We swear to you, you will never be disappointed again.”

“A valiant promise.” And now to less pleasant matters. “I have been told of the broken Rainbow Bridge.”

They both wince. “It had to be done,” says Loki.

“The full force of the Bifrost had been unleashed,” adds Thor. “Midgard was on the brink of annihilation. There was no other choice if we were to save the lives of the people.”

“I do not doubt your just intent, but Asgard sits a broken branch of Yggdrasil. The other eight realms are now beyond our protection or power. What will become of them?”

Thor and Loki look at each other.

“Ah,” says Thor.

“Well,” says Loki.

Odin hardly expected them to have an answer at the ready; it is something for them to think upon. “And there are yet further consequences. What of the human women you’ve brought to our halls?”

His sons’ expressions turn respectively closed and stormy in turn. Yes, Frigga did warn this would be a sensitive subject. “What of them?” asks Thor, with the edge of belligerence that it would seem his exile did not entirely wipe clean.

“They are hardly suitable companions for the Princes of the Realm Eternal.”

“You have not even met them yet.”

“Will meeting them make them any less mortal?”

“Surely you did not expect for us to live on Earth all this time and develop no connection to the people.” Loki’s face is bland, shuttered. “Indeed, was that not your very intention, Father?”

“My _intention_ was that you learn humility, patience, and compassion. Not that you return home with pets.”

For reasons the All-Father does not understand, the comment makes both Thor and Loki grin. The latter turns to the former and says: “Brother, you _must_ permit me to be present when you tell Darcy Lewis of this exchange in status.”

“You may, but she will laugh it off as she does all else. _I_ wish to see Jane Foster’s response.” Loki blanches, and Thor chuckles. “You should begin searching for chocolate now, brother, or you truly _will_ never get laid again.”

“Shut up.”

‘Get laid’? What is this speech his sons have acquired? “Do not believe me ignorant of the service these women have done for you, and thus for Asgard,” intones Odin. “For this, they have the gratitude of a king. But do not imagine this gratitude translates to welcome, nor that they will be permitted to stay.”

“The Bifrost is gone,” Loki replies sharply. If Thor retains an edge of belligerence, Loki still wields his silver tongue as a blade. “Would you see us cast them into the abyss?”

“You think me so hard-hearted?”

“I think we were left on Earth in fear and solitude for months on end.”

“ _Solitude_. Is it solitude to have had your brother at your side? I am Odin All-Father, King and Protector of this realm. I could have banished you to opposite corners of the stars. Instead I gave you each other for solace.” Odin stands before his throne and strikes Gungnir against the stones; the sound echoes through the hall. “ _Look at me_ and say you are not grateful for that mercy.”

Loki glances quickly at Thor, then lowers his eyes to the floor. “I am grateful, Father,” he mutters. “Truly.”

“As am I,” says Thor.

“Good. Then know this: your mortals shall be shown hospitality, but no more. And they will be returned to Earth as soon as a path is open. Humans do not belong on Asgard any more than goats belong at banquet tables.”

His younger son’s body grows unnaturally still; the elder shifts his weight. “You test the limits of our new restraint—”

“—and we thank you for your kindly meant words,” finishes Loki smoothly. “Be assured we will take your endless wisdom to heart.” He places a restraining hand on Thor’s shoulder, as though Odin cannot see the difference between a cold temper and a hot one. “Come along, brother.”

Thor twists Mjolnir in his fist, but allows Loki to lead him away.

Odin bows his head.

His solitude lasts only a moment before his queen says: “You handled that poorly.”

“I told you, wife, that I wished to speak to them _alone_.”

“And when, husband, have I ever listened?” Frigga appears in a shimmer beside the throne. Her expression is reproving. “Please, do not alienate them. Not after all we have been through.”

“I think of Asgard.”

“I think of our children.”

“And that,” says Odin heavily, “is why _I_ am King.”

 

 

 


	3. Wherein the palace staff is very confused.

**shorinai: Loki’s never seemed to care whether or not they’ve had an audience for sex, so: People walk in (and out) of places where Loki & Jane are having sex, while they’re having it. This does not bother Loki. It very much bothers Jane. **  
  
**carollinali: Thor and Darcy miss popcorn and pop tarts and etc, and try to make the cooks at the castle do midgardians dishes.**

  
  
_Wherein the palace staff is very confused. (Humor/Crack. R.)_  
  
  
  
  
Dregnr is a guard in the royal palace of Asgard. His father was a guard before him, and _his_ father was a guard before _him_. To listen to them, one would think the palace had been attacked every season by wild frost giants and bloodthirsty elves, saved only by how the valiant homeguard fought to the last man, and as a child Dregnr would sit wide-eyed at their feet, absorbing each tale of bravery and daring, cunning and courage. _One day_ , he would think, _one day I will be a guard as well, and I will tell my sons of **my** heroic deeds._

But Dregnr has long since learned that a guard’s life does not yield nearly as many heroic tales as his forebears implied. Especially not in the middle of the night. “My prince?” he calls, knocking on Prince Loki’s chamber door. “My prince, I bring you a message.”

There is no reply… or rather, no reply directed at Dregnr.

“My prince?”

If only they were a bit quieter, Dregnr could return and say in good conscience that he knew not whether the prince had been within his rooms, and without that knowledge he had of course no right to enter. Unfortunately, Dregnr was cursed at his birth with both an honest nature and excellent hearing, and so he opens the door and steps inside. “My prince,” he says a fourth time. Loudly.

Though a Midgardian mortal she may be, it would seem Prince Loki’s new consort is possessed of quick reaction. She squeaks, says a number of words Dregnr doesn’t recognize but suspects based on tone are better suited for a tavern brawl than a royal bed, squirms out from beneath her lover’s body, and a moment later is hidden under the dark Alfheim silks.

Prince Loki sits up and glares at Dregnr. “ _What_ is it?”

Dregnr can only bow. “My apologies for the interruption, my prince. Your brother has sent me with a message.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Yes, my prince.”

“He needs to discover a new hobby.” Prince Loki prods the silken lump at his side. “Come out, Jane Foster. It is only a guard.”

“I’m naked!”

“He’ll not mind.”

“ _I_ mind!”

“I’m not finished with you yet.”

“Yes, you are!”

The look Prince Loki gives Dregnr contains more words than many spoken sentences. _Now see what you’ve done?_ “Give me your message,” he sighs, “and be on your way.”

“Prince Thor and the Bestie Darcy Lewis—”

“You people really have no idea what that means, do you.”

“—request your assistance, and the assistance of your lady—”

A snort from under the blankets.

“—in the kitchens.”

“Ah. I see.” Prince Loki places his hand on a covered curve, stroking lightly. “Tell Thor I said to buzz off.”

“…my prince?”

“Colloquialism.” The fingers resting on the silks glow with a soft green light, but Prince Loki gives no outward reaction as the hidden lady squirms and emits a soft whimper. “We are entirely too occupied to attend whatever nonsense is currently underway in the pitiable chef’s domain.”

“Yes, my prince.” Dregnr swallows. “But, ah… the Bestie Darcy Lewis said you would reply in such a way, and wished to convey — I quote, my prince — that ‘boning needs calories, and sexaholics don’t get Pop-Tarts’.”

“I see. Well, I am not hungry at present.” Prince Loki’s lips curve into the sort of smile that has made more guards than Dregnr back away. The mischief it portends rarely bodes well for those in the prince’s presence. “And you, Jane Foster? Are you hungry?”

The green light brightens in one, two, three pulses; the long, low feminine noise that follows is hardly muffled by the sheets.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’. Are you ready to cease your inane hiding?”

“Only if we’re alone,” moans the lady, “and if you tell me how you do that.”

“Does not a demonstration suffice?”

“No.”

“Greedy creature,” Prince Loki complains, though his manhood twitches in response to his lady’s words.

Dregnr, being a professional, remains stoic in the face of this bizarre display — but he will have to relate the tale to some of his fellows at a later time. What sort of woman, let alone a consort, is ashamed to show herself in a royal bed? Or, for that matter, is foolish enough to respond to a prince in such a manner — and not just any prince, but Loki Odinson, who is well-known to tolerate impertinence from no one but his brother’s favorites?

Perhaps witchcraft is still alive on Midgard after all.

Prince Loki is speaking again. “Thor and Darcy Lewis will manage just fine on their own,” he says. He moves his fingertips against the blankets once more. The green light spreads. The response is both loud and soaked in need. “Now get out.”

Dregnr bows and makes for the door — but pauses when the prince adds: “Come back if they figure out coffee.”

“Yes, my prince.”

The noises that follow Dregnr down the hall can surely be heard in Jotunheim itself.

 

***

 

When Dregnr returns to the kitchens and relates the message, Prince Thor rolls his eyes. “Those two,” he says disparagingly, “need to discover a new hobby.”

“Eh, they had their space science stuff back home.” The table is covered in half a dozen dishes, all holding pastries of varying size and design, each of which are missing two bites. Bestie Darcy Lewis pushes the one before her towards the prince. “Now that’s gone. They’ll probably find something new soon… if they don’t die of starvation first.”

“Loki is of Asgard. Jane Foster will perish long before he runs out of energy. We must look after them.”

“I swear, they’d be lost without us.”

“Indeed.” Prince Thor tastes the pastry; his expression turns dissatisfied. “No, this is wrong as well. It’s too… too—”

“—good, right?”

“Exactly. This one is fresh, and light, and flaky. It should be—”

“—kind of cardboard-y. Like it’s been sitting on a shelf for two years.”

“This is not a Pop-Tart.”

“Nope.”

The chef sends Dregnr a look of absolute despair.

Bestie Darcy Lewis takes another thoughtful bite. “I really think it’s the preservatives,” she says, speaking with her mouth full. “It doesn’t have that ‘these chemicals are probably going to give me cancer but I don’t care’ feel to it.”

Prince Thor suddenly brightens. “What we need, Darcy Lewis, is the greatest expert on culinary delights in all the nine realms.” And he turns to Dregnr. “My friend, wake Volstagg, and inform him his insight is needed at once.”

These are _not_ the stories Dregnr’s father told.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [LOOKIT THE BEAUTIFUL FAN ART. LOOKIT.](http://bluepixystyx.tumblr.com/post/102433108656/inspired-by-audreyii-fics-awesome-story-ordinary)


	4. Wherein Darcy sells Thor out.

 

 

**subjunctive: They’re going to meet Frigga too soon, right?? What an awkward moment for Frigga to meet Jane, lol.**

**Riana1: I do want the awkward family dinner- I really want the awkward family dinner, specially where Frigga describes the horrible cuteness of Loki and Thor’s childhood to Jane and Darcy, including Loki’s horse crazy phase when he was like six and declared himself Sleipnir’s mama and Thor dressed up in his mother’s clothes.**

**helikesitheymikey: somebody finally trying to see why on earth Darcy and Thor haven’t become friends with sexual benefits**

_Wherein Darcy sells Thor out. (Humor/Family. PG.)_

 

 

 

Darcy did not see this one coming.

Okay, she didn’t see  _most_  of this coming. Yeah, she’d wanted to visit Asgard and all that good stuff — best spring break ever! — but, to be honest, in the back of her mind she’d felt like afterwards they would return to the way things were. Go back to New Mexico and the lab, Thor sleeping on the roof, Loki and Jane knocking boots at all hours of the day, and she, Darcy, taking care of them like the lovable if slightly stupid puppies they all were. Maybe everyone else had been varying levels of restless/homesick, but  _she’d_  been happy.

Here at the other end of the universe, with their way home shattered into a million colorful pieces, it gets more and more obvious every hour that those months in Puente Antiguo never had a chance of lasting.

But dwelling on stuff that can’t be changed isn’t in Darcy’s nature. She’s still got her friends, even though two-thirds of them are literal gods now. And Asgard  _is_  cool. So, like always, she’s rolling with the punches.

Even at the weirdest family dinners ever. “Darcy Lewis,” says Frigga, an actual _queen_  of an actual  _planet_ , “Midgardian customs have evolved since the Aesir last regularly visited, so tell me:  _is_  ‘bestie’ a modern term for ‘consort’?”

Thor chokes.

Jane blushes.

Loki facepalms.

Yup. Didn’t see it coming.

She takes a swig of beer before she answers. Thor was right — this stuff beats the hell out of Budweiser. “Nah,” she says. “‘Bestie’ is recent slang for ‘best friend’, except less formal, but not as pervasive as ‘BFF’, which is often used in a surprisingly unironic sense. The term really evolved for people who were interested in developing a happy medium between the two: i.e., informality combined with a genuine irreverent approach to the relationship.” These fruit-things on her plate are really good. “Whereas consorts, at least in the western cultural tradition, tend to indicate at least some degree of sexual reciprocity. Not so much with besties.”

Blank stares.

“Sociolinguistics is part of the political science track,” she explains.

“I… you…” Jane’s disbelieving expression might be an insult if that stuff didn’t roll off Darcy’s back. “ _Why_  did you apply for an  _astronomy_  internship with me again?”

Darcy shrugs. “I’d never been to New Mexico.”

Thor just laughs. 

Loki, who looks as close to embarrassed as Darcy’s ever seen him, mutters to his mother: “Do not waste your time. There’s no reason whatsoever to Midgard’s vernacular.”

“No?” Frigga raises a perfect eyebrow and beams at Loki. “Darcy Lewis seems quite eloquent on the matter.”

“My brother,” says Thor, “never grew accustomed to having a companion more knowledgable than he.” He grins and slaps Loki on the back. “Whereas I adjusted millennia ago. You did wish for us to be equals, did you not?”

A muscle in Loki’s jaw twitches. Scratch that —  _this_  is as close to embarrassed as Darcy’s ever seen him. She’d gloat, but that kind of thing invites major karma; by now  _her_  mom would have asked whether they’re all using name-brand condoms.

(Jeez, her mom must be so worried.)

Jane clears her throat. “Uh, so—” (oh shit,  _Jane’s_  going to try and defuse an awkward social situation) “—is Odin — er, I mean, King Odin — is he busy? Or does he not, um… eat?”

Three stony stares.

“Nice one,” Darcy mutters.

“What?” Jane whispers back. “I’m helping!”

At the head of the table, Frigga (who’s obviously way better at the whole diplomacy thing than Jane is, but then, that’s not saying much) manages a delicate smile. “My husband rarely takes time for family meals,” she says. “Nor do my sons, for that matter, but I still have a bit of influence over _their_  schedules.”

Thor glances across the table. “She said she’d hide my hammer.”

Not Mew-mew! “That’s cold,” Darcy says.

“Indeed. It was coercion, plain and simple.”

“The only objectionable part,” says Frigga, taking a sip of something that’s not beer but looks really good, “is that it  _requires_  coercion to meet your new friends.”

Jane shoots Loki a suspicious look. “What did she threaten  _you_  with?”

Ooh. Good question.

Loki suddenly seems to find the ceiling very interesting. “No threats were necessary,” he says calmly. “When my mother requests my presence, I obey.”

Thor smirks at that, opens his mouth—

—and Loki twitches his hand—

—and Thor (The Mighty Thor, as Darcy’s heard people calling him) is chirping like a cricket. “You were about to say, brother?”

Thor cheeps in fury.

Okay, Darcy’s got to admit, that was pretty cool. But she doesn’t think it’s as cool as Jane does, apparently;  _she_  looks like she’s about to crawl over the table and stick a flashlight down Thor’s throat. “That’s  _amazing_ ,” she says. “How did you do that?”

Loki preens, starts to answer—

—and mews like a kitten.

Frigga smiles beatifically at Jane and Darcy. “ _I_  taught him,” she says. “Though I’m afraid he doesn’t always use his gifts as I intended. But then, when Thor first learned to use a sword, he spent most of his days engaging in one-on-one combat with his stuffed bilgesnipe… so I suppose neither of my children have always used their skills for the most noble purposes.”

Jane looks like she can’t decide whether to change the subject or not. Darcy, however, has never had a problem with indecision. “I bet they did  _lots_  of interesting stuff as kids,” she says, grinning.

Thor glares at her. Loki makes a sound like a tabby being dipped in a flea bath. And Darcy can’t blame them — this is definite best friend betrayal — but come  _on_. How often do you get to hear embarrassing family stories about  _gods_?

It’s not like she’ll lord it over them.

Probably.

“Oh, indeed,” Frigga assures them. “In fact, it’s been centuries since I told the story of how Thor once stole my bridal dress and Loki pretended to— if you try to escape before dessert,” she says to her sons, who have both stood up so fast their chairs squealed on the stone floor, “I shall leave you both voiceless for a month.”

Thor sits down reluctantly, but Loki still looks mutinous. Bad move. “Dude,” Darcy tells him (because she still has to look out for their best interests, even when getting privileged childhood info), “you should probably stay. Imagine how bad it would be to meow at Jane when you’re—”

 _“Shut up,”_  Jane hisses. But she’s wrinkling her nose, and when she catches Loki’s eye there’s some kind of silent science-y fuckbuddy communication that happens that they seem to think no one else can see but is obvious as anything. And then Loki slowly sinks back into his chair.

Good thing, too. There was an alley cat outside of Darcy’s old apartment who kept going into heat, and the noise was ear-splitting. Given how far Loki and Jane’s voices  _already_  travel, this would probably be worse.

“Thank you,” Frigga says, and Darcy’s not exactly sure who’s she’s saying it  _to_. Might not matter. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes: my bridal gown is kept in a locked vault beyond my second chambers, which was — and is — completely out of bounds to my sons. Nevertheless, one day they decided…”

The next hour? Is  _awesome_.

 

 

 


	5. Wherein Loki is satisfied and Jane is not.

 

 

 

**Xidaer: What will Jane do when she discovers all (most) of the books in the library are unreadable- she’s has to have Loki read them to her instead.**

**carollinali: Loki has to steal Jane away from Aesir scientists/magicians/you know what I mean?**

 

_Wherein Loki is satisfied and Jane is not. (Romance/Angst. R.)_

 

 

“So these relics that ‘pre-date the universe’ — they’re sort of the Asgardian myth of creation.”

“Except they are true.”

Jane Foster’s look of disapproval, disapproval mixed with condescension, is something Loki would not have tolerated from anyone else in the nine realms. From  _her_ , it is… acceptable. “Every culture has its stories,” she tells him. “I’m only interested in facts. The ‘darkness’ here is obviously a reference to the Big Bang.”

“Or your ‘Big Bang’ is a reference to the Dark Elves.”

“They can’t— that’s not— if there was  _nothing_ , then  _no one_  could have—  _Ugh!_ ” Jane Foster flops back in her chair. The palace library echoes with her frustration. “Maybe you’re reading it wrong.”

All right,  _that_  is insulting. “Perhaps you would prefer to manage on your own?” Loki pushes the book in her direction. Illustrations swirl and dance along the pages. “Feel free, if you so doubt my translations.”

She scowls at the runes — then, after a long moment, sighs. “I don’t,” she says, a tinge of apology in her voice. “Not really. It’s not your fault what it says. Like when I showed you Genesis.”

Loki remembers that. He’d laughed so long that even Jane, a hardcore atheist sharing her home with two gods, became offended.

“But I’d still like to read it myself,” she continues. “Are you really  _really_  sure you can’t use your…  _tricks_ —” she chokes on the word, because she has not figured out what else to call them yet, and cannot bring herself to speak  _magic_ “—to switch it to English?”

“No,” Loki lies smoothly. “The tomes are locked from my talents.”

With nothing more than a thought, he could change every book in the library to any language of any realm.

But then Jane Foster would not require his assistance.

“Shall I keep reading?” he says.

“Just a second.” She taps her quill into the ink, frowning as she does. Her papers are illegible confusion. “Okay, go ahead.”

Another hour of recitation. Dull, childish bedtime stories (and no, Loki does not believe a word of them, but it amuses him to let Jane Foster believe he does), but his consort dutifully makes notes all the same, drawing closer with each passing paragraph. By the time he completes the chapter she has all but climbed into his chair, unable to resist a direct examination of the pages.

He likes that.

“I don’t understand how they move,” she says.  _I don’t understand_  are Loki’s favorite words right now, because they are always followed by— “Explain it to me.”

Months of frustration fade away as Loki pulls her off the edge of the chair and into his lap. All that time as a mortal he’d  _known_  what he’d had to offer this curious Midgardian, and all that time he’d had to make do with with so little. Now he can entice her at his leisure, dropping bits of knowledge like breadcrumbs, watching her eyes shine with admiration and awe as she devours each one and begs for more. As though no one in the universe could offer her more.

And no one can. So, in this world she’s never seen, a world full of new delights and (for her) endless discoveries, he must make sure she does not forget that.

“It’s magic,” Loki says, slowly pulling up the hem of her dress. He desires her most when she’s like this, asking questions, eager for his answers. “I’ve told you a thousand times.”

“That’s not enough.”

Precisely. “It will have to suffice.”

Jane Foster turns around in his lap, straddling his hips. Yes, this is what he wants—

—but her expression makes him pause. It is…  _disappointed_. “You’re holding out on me,” she says. “And it isn’t fair.”

“I’ve not been—”

“ _Yes,_  you have. I’m not stupid, Loki.” (He bites back a protest. He does not think her that. Ignorant, yes, but never stupid.) “All that time in New Mexico, I put  _everything_  I had into getting you back here. I used everything I knew. All to help you. And now you’re—”

He puts his hands on her waist and jerks her closer. “You helped yourself,” he snarls. “Don’t pretend you had purely altruistic motives, Jane Foster. You wanted the Rainbow Bridge open for your own ends. It was only chance that our  _desires_ —” he pulls her down, grinds her against him, and she makes a soft noise “—happened to coincide.”

She flushes. It is for more than one reason. “All right.” Her tone is grudging, but her fingers find their way into his hair. Loki leans into her touch. “I wanted to see the universe. But you could still tell me what you know. Why don’t you?”

Because when she marvels at his knowledge, he is more satisfied than he has ever been.

But Loki cannot tell her that.

She already holds too much power over him.

“It would take millennia for you to comprehend a tenth of what I know,” he says, settling on a half-truth as his lips find her pulse. Each heartbeat brings her closer to her mortal demise. He did not feel that on Midgard as he does now. Another dilemma to resolve. And quickly.

Jane Foster is reaching for the ties of his pants. “Then you better get started,” she murmurs. “Or I’ll have to go figure it out on my own.”

No. “There’s no need for that.” His breath hitches at her teasing strokes; she has learned too much about what he likes. He should have guarded himself better on Earth. He should not have let her see so much of him. He was cast out, and powerless, and frightened, but still,  _he should have known better._  “We will go out into the city. The observatory. What’s left of the bridge. If this is insufficient, I can give you more.”

He can still keep  _more_  from being  _enough_. He is Loki of Asgard. Such manipulation is hardly beyond him.

Jane Foster’s mouth meets his, and their argument ends. In a few minutes, there is a whole new sort of awe in her eyes.

Loki closes his own.

It would not do for her admiration to be reflected in his.

 

 

 


	6. Wherein Sif learns about Harry Potter.

**Xidaer: Darcy has the option to actually have a giant dog of her own- but prefers Thor in the end.**

**siesiegirl: jealous!Sif fucking with Darcy. (and along those lines, whose side will the Warriors Three take in that feud?)**

**EmilieMonaghan : Sif might not know what a 'bestie' is, but she knows a rival when she sees one.**

 

_Wherein Sif learns about Harry Potter. (Humor/Friendship. PG.)_

 

 

  
Outside the healing room, Sif sits with her head in her hands.

The commotion within is nothing she has not heard before — she is a warrior. Injuries are part of her life. But wounds, even accidental ones, are one thing; _illness_  is another. And mortals are so _fragile_. How could she have forgotten? How could she have dismissed the signs? Is she so blind?

Or is her dislike (her _jealousy_ ) so profound that she _knew_  what was happening, and subconsciously yet willfully dismissed it?

What has she done?

“What have you done?”

That cold, irritatingly familiar voice is _not_  what Sif wants to hear right now. “It was an accident,” she says.

Loki stops before her and crosses his arms with a look of contempt. (How _dare_  he treat her with disgust. She knows what he is. A traitor to Asgard. A danger to Thor. He has always been jealous of his brother.) “An accident,” he repeats with a drawl. “I see.”

Another burst of hurried voices from within the chamber.

“Thor had spoken of bilgesnipes,” says Sif. “Darcy Lewis—”

“ _Bestie_  Darcy Lewis, my lady. We ought show her the respect of her proper title.”

Sif grits her teeth. “ _Bestie_  Darcy Lewis—” (what _is_  a ‘bestie’, anyway, aside from a rank that clearly exceeds hers?) “—expressed an interest in the hunt. As Thor was occupied, I offered to take her to the stables to see the destriders.”

“Only the destriders?” Loki raises a single eyebrow. The mortal girl is supposed to be his friend, his friend who lies possibly _dying_  through a single set of doors, and he is _enjoying_  this. “Not the twelve-foot hunting dogs as well?”

She swallows. “Yes. Those as well.”

There are no hounds of such size on Midgard — or anywhere else, for that matter. Perfectly safe if you know how to handle them, but…

She had only meant to unsettle the mortal. Darcy Lewis has been so _comfortable_  since the moment she stepped foot in Asgard. Far too comfortable for a girl of a mere twenty-two years who has never seen a world beyond her own — and not even much of that. Sif only thought to show her something that might… remind her of her inexperience.

She never meant to hurt her.

She doesn’t even know how it happened.

“It was an accident,” Sif says again.

“A fact which will comfort Thor in the event of her death.”

“She will not die.”

“Are you certain?”

No.

Wait— yes. Yes, she is. “You would not be so calm,” Sif says to Loki, realization dawning, “were she in serious danger.”

Loki’s expression of distant disapproval doesn’t even waver. “Darcy Lewis and I are hardly more than acquaintances,” he tells her. “She is a loud-mouthed irritant more often than not.”

A lie. Sif is not blind. Loki certainly does not cling to Darcy Lewis as he does to Jane Foster (a subject of ongoing curiosity in the halls of Asgard), but his sharp tongue curbs itself for her nevertheless. And he does not bristle at the way she teases him in return. This is as close to friendship as Sif believes Loki capable.

(She tried to be kind when they were children. She disliked him, but she _tried_ , yet Loki only ever showed resentment that his brother’s attention became divided. As though it were not enough that Thor loved Loki _most_  — the jealous little snake could not tolerate his having other friends at all. Sif _tried_ , and Loki turned her hair dark out of spite.)

The second Prince of Asgard is a talented liar, but if he truly feared for Darcy Lewis, his dagger would be at Sif’s throat. She knows this. She might allow it, rather than face Thor when he finds out.

(Will he hate her for this? Centuries at his side, and will he turn away from her for a woman he’s known only a few heartbeats?)

Loki’s hand comes to rest on Sif’s shoulder. She shrugs him off. “Don’t touch me,” she warns.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “I meant only to offer my sympathies. It is a discomfiting thing, when a little prank goes awry.”

She wasn’t playing a prank. Sif does not play pranks. She is the first warrior maiden of Asgard. Pranks are beneath her.

(Darcy Lewis had knelt in the straw of the stable, red-faced, sneezing, gasping for breath. She had just meant to rattle the girl. It _was_  a prank, and Sif has never been more ashamed.)

The doors of the healing room swing open. Sif leaps to her feet, but Eir only has words for Loki. “My Prince,” the old woman says, a wealth of barely-repressed anger in her tone, “I mean no disrespect, but we _cannot_  continue our ministrations if your consort insists upon—”

“Hey, Loki!” Jane Foster calls from within (voice carries too easily through these halls, in Sif’s opinion). “They have a quantum field generator in here! Why didn’t you tell me that? A _quantum field generator!_ ”

“Soul Forge,” Eir mutters under her breath.

Loki doesn’t even make an effort to repress his smile. “I suggest you let Jane Foster do as she will. Dissuading her from disassembling objects in the name of science is a waste of everyone’s valuable time.”

“’Tis not ‘science’ — it is _magic_.”

“Indeed. And when you have that discussion with her, I really must insist on being present. I’ll even bring popcorn.”

“Popcorn?”

This is no time for bickering. “How is your patient?” demands Sif. “Will she recover?”

“She will,” says Eir, “though I confess I’ve no notion of how, nor of what ailed her.”

“It was the hounds.” Loki glances at Sif, his grin widening. “Darcy Lewis is allergic to dogs. A uniquely mortal ailment, though not uncommon. It is why she chose to take a job at the DVD rental store while Thor worked at the pet shop; his jeans had to be washed twice before she stopped sneezing.”

Sif would rather bite off her tongue and swallow it than admit she only understood one word in five of what Loki just said. “So she’ll be well.”

“Keep her away from the stables and she’ll be right as rain. Idiom,” he adds before either Sif or Eir can ask. (As though he didn’t use it only to irritate them.)

Eir turns to Sif, looking very much as though she’s considering retirement to the far outskirts of the realm. “Bestie Darcy Lewis has been requesting your presence,” she says.

Oh.

 

***

 

Several minutes pass before Loki is able to remove Jane Foster from the healing room, only succeeding with solemn promises of access to the Soul Forge as soon as possible. (Eir’s lips had pressed together so tightly they nearly disappeared.) It takes nothing more than a nod for Sif to clear the rest of the healers as well, so that she and Darcy Lewis can speak in private -- for if Darcy Lewis wishes to (rightly) castigate her for her actions, Sif would just as soon there not be witnesses.

But the mortal does no such thing. “Hey,” she says, smiling as though nothing has happened. “Can you get me out of here?”

Sif blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“The nurses keep looking at me like I’m a frog in a freshman bio class. I thought Jane would be able to spring me, but she got distracted, and you’re not the distractable type, so… yeah. Will you tell them to let me go?”

“Perhaps you should remain until you are—”

“Dude, I feel _fine_. Those giant dogs of yours need baths, though. Just saying.” Darcy Lewis adjusts her spectacles, then suddenly frowns. “Hey, you’re not feeling bad, are you? It’s no biggie.”

Not even an event like _this_  can disturb this human’s placidity. How can that be? “I nearly killed you,” Sif says, voice rising.

“Nah. It’d be nice if I had an inhaler or something, but no one ever died of a sneeze attack. I don’t think.”

“Why are you not angry with me?”

“I don't really get angry. Total waste of energy. Besides, we’re both Hufflepuffs.”

Sif cannot hide her bafflement.

Darcy Lewis continues: “See, I figured it out awhile ago. It’s why Jane and Thor and Loki and I handled life so well. It’s all in the balance. Loki is totally a Slytherin, Jane’s about the biggest Ravenclaw to ever Ravenclaw, Thor couldn’t be more of a Gryffindor if he tried—”

Does _anything_  this mortal says make sense?

“—and I’m a Hufflepuff. I know. I took about a zillion quizzes.” Darcy Lewis swings her legs over the side of her bed. She _does_  look well. “The point is, you’re a Hufflepuff too. So I get it. You’re super-loyal to Thor.”

“Yes. I am.” It is the most important part of her life.

“But you really don’t have to worry about other people being loyal, too, is the thing. I’m not going to stab him in the back or anything. I look out for him. I look out for _all_  of them, ‘cause, I don’t know if you noticed, but they _really_  need looking after.”

Sif _has_  noticed. At least with Thor — she would follow him anywhere, but other voices must guide him as well. But she does not know Jane Foster, and Loki… he is a different matter.

( _There are traitors in the house of Odin_ , Laufey said.)

“My point is, it’s okay if you don’t like me. You guys have your little Hogwarts — except I don’t know who Hogun is, probably the Ravenclaw — and we have our Hogwarts, but it’s not like we have to fight just because we share a Gryffindor.” Sif just shakes her head, and Darcy Lewis sighs. “Maybe Thor can translate it better for you. I got him to watch the movies. Anyway, are we cool?”

Sif isn’t sure she can be ‘cool’ with Darcy Lewis. (That term, at least, she came to understand almost the moment the mortals arrived.) But… “I suspect you are as wise as Thor says,” she tells the _bestie_.

“Great. So you’ll get me out of here before they start poking me with that Quantum-Forge-Whatever again? Because it seriously creeps me out.”

“I will.”

“Sweet.”

 


	7. Wherein Darcy cheats and Jane steals.

**Madalayna: I would love to see some "ordinary" Asgardians in your sequel. Jane and Darcy seem like they would be more into getting to know the regular people and not just the pompous royals. It would be interesting to see how they react to the princes of Asgard's "friends" from Midgard.**

**iamartemisday said: If you're still taking prompts for Out of Town, how about Thor and Loki decide to take Jane and Darcy into town to show them around, and they all wind up getting separated.**

**samdram1: What about a drabble of Darcy and Thor bar hopping --or tavern hopping!**

**QueenJin: Darcy decides to try and drink Thor under the table. Loki helps her to cheat.**

**helikesitheymikey: Loki goes bad ass on a couple of guys who were hitting on Jane/giving Jane unwanted attention.**

 

 

 

_Wherein Darcy cheats and Jane steals. (Humor/Drama. PG-13.)_

 

 

_(Some of this drabble is from[a Dark World deleted scene](http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1f29ud_thor-the-dark-world-deleted-scene-jane-wakes-up_shortfilms). All the best Jane parts got taken out. Not to mention most of Malekith’s story. Plus extra Loki stuff. Where is our Director’s Cut, Kevin Feige?)_

 

 

 

Kjell, son of Kjell, has not been the proprietor of Ǫlker Tavern for very long (only fifty years, as his father reminds him nearly daily). So he can be forgiven, in his own mind, for not exhibiting the sort of confidence that made the Ǫlker famous in his forebears’ hands. And if his mead is not yet worthy of Valhalla, his bilgesnipe dyresteg is developing a reputation of its own. (Kjell has always had more skill at the stove than the cask.)

Still, young though he may be, he has plans. Vision! Mead will come in time. The tales of his dyresteg will spread. His feather-light almond cakes will erase all memories of famous Alfheimian aphrodisiac confections. People will travel across realms to find out what delicacy he serves for the daily special. And Kjell will then be known only as  _Kjell_ , not Kjell _son of_  Kjell.

(And Father won’t be able to say a thing about it.) 

So the day the Princes of Asgard enter the Ǫlker Tavern for the first time (at least since he’s taken over), Kjell almost falls over behind the bar. Prince Thor! Prince Loki! Fandral the Dashing! Hogun the Grim! Darcy Lewis the Bestie!—  

—wait, is he so lucky, dare he hope, dare he even _dream_ —

 _Yes_.

There he is.

_Volstagg the Voluminous is in. His. Tavern._

This is his moment.

“Quick,” Kjell son of Kjell whispers to Ylva (a woman half his height who has been wenching the tables since Kjell’s grandsire was a Kjell son of Kjell), “open our finest cask.”

Ylva merely looks at him. She has not spoken a word in centuries, but her white eyebrows communicate all.

“Yes, I _know_ ,” says Kjell. “I never said our _finest_  was _good_. Do it anyway.”

Does he have enough ingredients for kronans kaka? By all the branches of Yggdrasil, let it be so.

 

***

 

It was a long night, but the insistent knocks at his front door finally rouse Arvid from his bed. Anyone else he would curse away — are guards _never_  allowed their sleep? — but he knows those little fists. They are very difficult to refuse.

Still, he schools his face into a stern expression when he opens the door. “You’ve best have good reason,” he growls at his nephews.

The eldest blinks up at him with huge, piteous eyes. “The lady took our ball,” he explains, as the youngest nods vigorously.

“Is that all? Find your nerve and demand its return, little ones.”

“We can’t.” The eldest glances from side to side, then lowers his voice to a whisper. “It’s the _mortal_  lady. Papa told us not to speak to her.”

The youngest nods again. “Uh-huh. Papa said.”

Arvid sighs. Why his sister married such a milksop as Dregnir, he will never understand. Before long the poor boys will be milksops as well. “And I suppose you’d rather _I_  speak to her instead.”

“Yes, please.”

“Yes, please.”

If only they were not so damned earnest. “You will come along,” Arvid warns them, reaching for his cloak, “and you will learn. There is no excuse for being cowed by mortals, do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle Arvid.”

“Yes, Uncle Arvid.”

 

***

 

Fandral watches as Darcy Lewis tosses the empty mug over her shoulder. It hits the stone floor with a crash. “Round three?”

“Round three,” Thor agrees. To the bar he calls: “Another!”

Volstagg — halfway through a dish of bilgesnipe that hopefully tastes more appetizing than it smells — sighs. “I,” he says woefully, “am about to lose a great deal of coin, am I not.”

Hogun shakes his head. “Just wait, my friend. No one can best Thor.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Loki settles back in his chair, smiling one of those smiles that bodes ill for everyone around him. “I have seen Darcy Lewis drink gold. You would be wise not to bet against her.”

“She drinks _gold?_ Why did you not mention this _before_  we laid our wagers?”

“You failed to ask, Volstagg.”

The next mugs of mead arrive. “I _shall_ triumph, you know,” Thor warns Darcy Lewis. “Take care not to cause yourself harm on the road to defeat.”

Darcy Lewis raises her mead in some sort of salute. “Haven’t lost a drinking contest since freshman year,” she announces. “Bring it.”

Then she burps.

Fandral thinks he might be in love.

 

***

 

“Quick!” Kjell son of Kjell hisses to Ylva. “Open another cask!” Who knew a Bestie — what _is_  a ‘bestie’, anyway? — would not notice mead mediocrity?

(Ylva does not roll her eyes. Ylva does not need to.)

 

***

 

It is hardly difficult to discover the mortal’s whereabouts — the people of the neighborhood give her a wide berth, preferring to edge around the boulevard than come within fifteen feet of where she stands. And when he gets closer, Arvid understands why.

He had expected the so-called _bestie_. By reputation that one seems more the sort to freely wander the streets and take that which is not hers.

But it is not she.

“This thing is _amazing_.” The mysterious Jane Foster, a subject of more speculation than any other in memory, fusses over a child’s toy and speaks to thin air. “I mean, the magnetic propulsion alone would advance Earth’s science by _decades_.”

Is this little slip of a creature truly the woman who has so turned the head of a Prince of Asgard? And not just _any_  prince — _Loki_ , the trickster mage, well-known for captivating with his silver tongue but never being himself captured? This woman — _this_  dull little woman — is the one from whom Prince Loki is known to tolerate incivility with _indulgence?_

_Her?_

Recent events get stranger and stranger. 

Arvid pulls himself to his full height as he approaches. Consort or not, mortals ought know their place.

“I am _so_  taking this apart,” the woman continues excitedly. “Loki, do you know where I can—” She looks up at last, blinking in apparent surprise as Arvid looms over her. “Oh,” she says. “You’re not him.”

“No,” Arvid agrees.

“Huh.” She turns on her heel, looking around at the nearly empty street. She seems not to notice — or not be bothered by — the small crowd watching her curiously from doorways and alleys. “Where’d he go? Wasn’t he just here?”

“I believe not.”

“Oh, no. I must have taken a wrong turn. They were all heading to a bar.”

“Which one?”

“Um… the one with mead. I wasn’t listening. There’s a building around the corner whose construction completely defies Newtonian law. But I really need to—”

And he’d heard she was intelligent. How wrong palace rumors can be. “All taverns have mead,” Arvid tells her (with far more patience than is warranted). “And there are _eight_  within a quarter mile of where we now stand. You’d be far better returning to the palace—”

“No, I just—”

“—and I’ll take you there myself once you return the toy.”

“Huh?”

“That ball belongs to my sister’s children. Give it back.”

The people pull even further back at his sharp tone, glancing at each other in surprise -- and near fright. It makes Arvid’s blood boil. A mere Midgardian should never inspire consternation among the Aesir, no matter whose bed she warms. The boys are watching; Arvid will teach them the correct way to behave in such a situation. _Someone_  must.

Jane Foster looks down at the toy in her hand, then grins — sheepishly perhaps, but without a hint of true shame. “Oh. Oh! Right.” And she tosses the ball to his nephews, who run off the instant it is again in their possession. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. Is there someplace you can buy those? The mechanics are—”

Arvid has had enough of this. “Come along, woman,” he says, taking her by the elbow and steering her forcibly towards the road that will lead them back to the palace. “There is nothing for you here. You can await Prince Loki in his chambers.”

Asgardians should not have to make way for a _mortal_.

 

***

 

It’s after the fifth mug of mead that Volstagg begins to suspect something is amiss. It’s true — none have ever bested Thor in such a contest — but his friend’s grin has grown a little looser, his laugh a little louder. 

Darcy Lewis, on the other hand, shows no signs of effect whatsoever. Perhaps she is a witch. It _would_  explain much. Witchcraft—

—is not a _Midgardian_  talent.

Volstagg turns his attention to Loki, master of magic, whose amused expression is just a touch _too_  amused. Every few moments his fingers twitch across the table…

“Malfeasence!” Volstagg roars, clapping Darcy Lewis on the back.

A shimmer of gold travels across her body as Loki’s illusion breaks. The mortal’s calm, collected facade vanishes, replaced by flushed cheeks, a slumped posture, and a grin wider and more foolish than even Thor’s. “Whoops,” she slurs, giggling.

Thor turns to his brother in horror. _“Loki!”_

“What?” The mischief-maker shrugs. “It’s hardly sporting to pit a human’s metabolism against that of an Asgardian.”

“You cheated!”

“Oh, brother, lighten up.”

“Furthermore, you pulled our friend into your games—”

“Acshully,” Darcy Lewis says, “it was my idea.” When Thor goggles at her in disbelief, she adds: “S’wasn’t fair. An’ I beat you at Jäger bombs.”

“That was when I was _mortal_.”

“See? See? S’my point!” She turns to the growing throng, waiving her mug and sloshing mead across the table. “Ohmigod, guys, did he tell you get about the Jäger bombs? Just had a leeeettle hangover an’ thought he was gonna _die_ —”

“She’s _perfect_ ,” Fandral says to Volstagg, eyes wide.

Thor is trying to shout over Darcy Lewis’s tale, Loki is laughing until the subject turns to something called Goldschläger, Fandral is mooning with that lovestruck face of his _yet again_  (hopefully this will turn out better than the fool’s last enamorment -- and the enamorment before that -- not to mention the enamorment before _that_ , when only luck and diplomacy averted all-out war with Nornheim) and Volstagg sees a lot of unnecessary strife in their future. In the growing chaos he is considering ordering another bowl of this surprisingly tasty dyresteg—

—when Hogun blandly mentions, “We’ve misplaced Jane Foster.”

 

***

 

“Hey! _Hey!_  Let me _go,_  you asshole!” The human’s efforts to wretch her arm from Arvid’s grip are laughably useless. “I have to find my friends!”

“I’m certain they’ll manage without you.”

“You don’t understand!” She stumbles over a cobblestone; Arvid hauls her back to her feet and keeps going. “The three of them have this way of getting into trouble when they drink. They forget to pay the bill, somehow there’s _always_  a fight, once they actually got _shot_ at—”

And Arvid had heard the Bestie was the loud one. “That mouth of yours must truly be skilled,” he snaps, “if Prince Loki is willing to tolerate it flapping all the time.” 

Jane Foster flushes dark red and twists her arm yet _again_. “How dare— did you just—”

“Mortal, we are almost to the palace. If you cease struggling we’ll be parted from each others’ company that much sooner.”

“I think not,” says a new voice. “You’ll be parted _now_.”

Arvid may be out of patience with this ridiculous woman (living in the palace, favored, raised above the Aesir, those people who once fought Frost beasts to save her unworthy ancestors as they huddled in their frozen caves), but he is no fool. He releases Jane Foster’s elbow and sinks to his knees on the street. “My prince,” he murmurs.

“Loki!” Arvid dares not raise his eyes, but he can hear relief in the mortal’s tone. “Oh, good. I got turned around.”

“So I see. My apologies for not realizing earlier, but events became rather, ah…”

From the distance there is shouting. And crashing. And the smell of smoke.

The mortal groans. “Not _again_. How does this happen _everywhere_  you guys go?”

“I really don’t see what all the fuss is about. On Asgard it’s considered nearly impolite if a gathering doesn’t end in broken furniture.”

“And fire?”

“…the fire _was_  unexpected, I’ll admit. But someone had to distract Darcy Lewis from sharing certain tales with half the population of the realm.”

“So you set it.”

“It was Thor, actually. Unsubtle, but effective — rather like my brother himself.” Steps on the pavement — then the prince’s boots come into Arvid’s field of vision. They stop just beneath his nose. “You seem to have found some disturbances of your own, Jane Foster.”

The mortal scoffs. “It was _not_  my fault. I got lost—”

“Distracted, you mean?”

“—lost, distracted, whatever, and I kind of took these kids’ ball by accident—”

“Of _course_  you did.”

“—shut up. Then this _jerk_  decided to drag me back to the palace.”

“Yes. That part I saw.” The toe of Prince Loki’s boot touches Arvid’s chin, raising his head. The prince’s face, like his voice, is disturbingly impassive. “What is your name?”

“Arvid, son of Ake.”

“Arvid, son of Ake. Do you know, I slit the throat of the last man who handled my consort in violence?”

The murmur through the crowd nearly drowns out the mortal’s sputter of horror. “You _what?_  Who?”

“The soldier who led the attack on your laboratory and our village. And if you expect me to feign remorse, Jane Foster, you wait in vain. He’s hardly the only one to die in battle that day.”

“Oh. _Him_. _He_ blew up half of Puente Antiguo. But, uh… you're not going to slit _this_ guy's throat, are you?"

"Whyever not?"

"That’s... um... not how we do things on Earth.”

“And we’re no longer on Earth, as you may have noticed.”

“Well… yeah, except…” The mortal’s voice drops, too low to be heard by the people, but not low enough to hide from Arvid’s ears. “You’re just trying to scare him, right? People don’t _really_  just… _kill_  each other in Asgard. Do they? I mean, when there’s guns out, that’s one thing, but…” She trails off.

Loud, presumptuous, _and_  ignorant. At the very least Arvid will be flogged for his insult, and it is very much within the right of an Asgard royal to take his life. If he had handled Frigga thusly, the King would have not given him time to draw breath.

But the human is no queen. She is an oddity that the second son of Odin has chosen (briefly, one hopes) to indulge. And even if it means his life, Arvid will not kow-tow to a mortal of Midgard. His nephews could still be watching nearby.

He waits, stoic, for the blade.

A moment later the boot beneath Arvid’s chin disappears. "As you say, Jane Foster. I am only scaring him." And Prince Loki _laughs_. “Be grateful, son of Ake, that I find this woman’s disapproval to be both tiresome and inconvenient. But don’t imagine you'll go unpunished.”

“Oh, he _better_ not. In New Mexico jerking a person around like that is at least a misdemeanor.”

“I seem to recall Darcy Lewis mentioning something like that, yes.” Prince Loki raises his voice, loud enough for the crowd to hear, and says: “Perhaps some time in a dungeon cell will teach Arvid son of Ake his manners — and remind him of _his_ place.”

“Plus,” adds Jane Foster, “he can tell me where to get one of those magnetic balls.”

Arvid grits his teeth — and wonders for how long these indignities to the house of Odin can possibly stand.

 

***

 

Kjell, son of Kjell, can’t hold back his tears as he douses the last smoldering embers from the formerly-largest table in Ǫlker Tavern. “It’s beyond imagining,” he says to Ylva for the fifth time. “The Princes Thor and Loki! The Warriors Three! The Bestie Darcy Lewis! Brawling in _my tavern!_   _And_  Volstagg the Voluminous said he _likes my dyresteg!_ Do you think I ought put up a sign? I think I will put up a sign.”

This is the greatest day of Kjell’s life.

If Ylva has an opinion, she does not share it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [dyresteg](http://www.recipesource.com/ethnic/europe/norwegian/dyresteg1.html) recipe no one asked for. I have no idea how it would taste with bilgesnipe.


	8. Wherein Thor provides unwanted but much needed advice.

**halfpennytumbles: I’m a wretched cliche so I’d love to see Loki or Jane being jealous and possessive because they’re both ridiculous entities deeply committed to Being The Best/Only Focus of the Other’s Attention.**

**Xidaer: Isn't paper a precious resource in Asgard? Also learning how to write with something other than a ballpoint pen and no computers! What's a research scientist to do?**

 

 

 

_Wherein Thor provides unwanted but much needed advice. (Humor/Family. PG.)_

 

 

 

“Damn it!”

It is pure luck that Thor overhears a messenger relaying a request (though the messenger conveys it as a demand) for additional scrolls to be brought to the highest palace tower. The fact that he, a Prince of Asgard, intervened with an offer to make the delivery himself, clearly shocked every passerby within hearing.

(Was he truly _so_  arrogant before he fell to Midgard, that the people are stunned by a display of common courtesy? It is a humbling thought. It _should_ be one.)

And thus it is _also_  pure luck that Thor overhears Jane Foster’s grumbles and lamentations. He finds her wrapped tightly in an embroidered coverlet, small hands poking out from beneath in an effort to hold scroll and quill against the tower's balcony ledge. Each gust of wind pulls firmly at the paper. “This ridiculous thing!”

She jumps when Thor chuckles — and the quill goes flying into the night.

“This is not the most effective location for note-taking,” he points out over her stream of expletives.

“I’m not taking notes,” she grumbles. “I’m charting the constellations. Which is impossible on... what is this, even? Papyrus? All these technological advances, and you guys don’t have laptops?”

“I’ll ask Father to direct the research at once.” Thor passes the new scrolls; they nearly fall from her hands as she fights to keep the blanket about her shoulders. “May I recommend the observatory? Tables, chairs, fewer breezes, better view — and certainly warmer.”

“I _would_  if I could _find_  it.”

Thor frowns. “Has Loki not taken you there?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Nope. And he’s got about a million excuses to put me off. He’s being really cagey about the whole thing.”

“Cagey?” Must Midgardians always overcomplicate their speech?

“Um… secretive, kind of. It’s really starting to get on my nerves.”

Ah.

That fool.

“I will speak to him,” he says, resting a hand on Jane Foster’s shoulder.

“If it does any good. I don’t know why he’s being so— it’s not like him.”

It is _exactly_  like him — with everyone else. And the fact that Jane Foster is not accustomed to such treatment shows how vital it is that Loki not, as Darcy Lewis would say, ‘screw this up like a dipshit’. “I will speak to him,” Thor repeats. “And I will see to it he listens.”

Jane Foster makes a small scoffing noise, as though to continue her protest…

…then she looks up. She studies Thor’s face. “You sure?”

“It is the least I can do.” And it is. Perhaps he and Darcy Lewis are closer, but Thor has never been ignorant of Jane Foster’s many virtues. She is clever, caring, and loyal. He is lucky to know her. “We are friends, are we not?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course we are.”

“Then accept my assistance.” He winks at her. “It cannot _always_  be Jane Foster and Darcy Lewis who solve the problems.”

She laughs. “Yeah, I guess not.” Then — to Thor’s surprise — she sets aside the scrolls (half blow away immediately) and, after a moment of awkward hesitation, hugs him around the waist. “You’re a really great guy," she tells him. "I know I’m not like Darcy — I mean, I don’t remember to say things like that very often. But I think it. Just so you know.”

“I would never wish for you to be like Darcy Lewis,” Thor says honestly, returning the embrace. “Not when you make such an excellent Jane Foster.”

It is a good feeling to have a friend who is so different from his many others. As Darcy Lewis says, their Hogwarts is balanced. (Thor attempted to explain this metaphor to Sif, but suspects he only worsened her understanding. Also she seems angry to have been called a badger.)

These pleasant musings do not last for long.

“My apologies,” says a mild — and dangerous, to those who know it — voice from the doorway. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all.” Thor releases Jane Foster and steps back. A  _single_  step. He will not be cowed by his brother’s irrationality. “We were just speaking of you.”

“Were you.”

Jane Foster bends to pick up the fallen scrolls, then straightens. When her chin is raised she seems every bit as tall as them. “Yeah, we were. About how I don’t know where the observatory is.”

Loki tilts his head to the side and smiles. “Oh, is that it?” he answers smoothly. “If I’d but known you planned to star chart tonight… alas, the rooms are not—”

“Loki.” Thor fixes his brother with a look — the one he long ago learned from their father. _Dismiss my words at your peril._  “Tell her how to find the observatory, or I will escort her there myself.”

A long moment of silence.

“Take the stairs down five levels.” Loki’s expression does not waver; his eyes do not leave Thor’s. “Follow the corridor to the right. I will join you later.”

“Don’t bother.” For someone who just got what she wanted, Jane Foster appears more irritated than ever. “You obviously don’t want to help me if your brother has to twist your arm. _I’ll_  work, and you go do… whatever it is you do. Turn something invisible.” And she stalks from the tower with her head held high — shedding more scrolls and quills with each step.

Loki half-reaches for her as she passes.

She does not pause.

After the door has shut, Thor says: “You injure no one but yourself by this behavior.”

His brother turns on him with a snarl. (He would never have done so before their banishment. Thor suspects this may be better, showing rage rather than swallowing it, as it is better for he himself to express gratitude instead of taking luck and blessings as his due.) “And what would you understand of it?” he growls. “You, with all your strength and your idiotic— or is it something else entirely? Do you wish to know Jane Foster as _I_  do?”

“ _That_ is madness.”

“Is it? Or is it that you cannot accept I possess something you do not? If you think to take her from me—”

Once he would have reached for his hammer. Instead Thor steps forward and cups the back of Loki’s head, as he has since they were children, and says: “I do not believe you think that of me, brother.”

At first Loki flinches back — but then, slowly, the imbalance drains from his body. Without it he seems exposed, uncertain. “No,” he murmurs. “No, I do not. Pay my words no heed. They were spoken in anger.” He crosses to the window ledge, leans out, looks blankly over the city that belongs to them both. 

Thor will one day be king of all the realm — and Loki will be there to advise him. But, though Loki may be the quicker of the two, Thor is still his elder. Advisement does not fall solely on his brother’s shoulders. Especially on personal matters.

He will help.

When Loki realizes Thor has not departed, he sighs… though he smiles wryly. “It is unwise to be in my company right now, brother.”

Thor smiles in return. “Who said I was wise?” (They exchanged these words mere heartbeats ago. Why does it feel like lifetimes?) “I cannot understand why it is you so jealously guard Jane Foster’s attention. Two worlds are _more_  than familiar with your mutual affection. Why are you not satisfied?”

“Perhaps satisfaction isn’t in my nature.”

And surrender is not in Thor’s. “I refuse to see you sabotage the first thing to bring you happiness in decades.”

“Happiness? How can _this_  be happiness?” Loki flexes his hands (no, just one hand, only the left) against the balcony rail until his knuckles turn white; the stumbling confession that follows is unlike any his brother has ever granted him before. “I thought the… the… _necessity_  would lessen once we came home — instead it only heightens, and— and it seems I cannot do without her admiration. I  _demand_  that she think well of me. It is an utterly unbearable feeling.”

“You have made many women think well of you.” (Except when Thor also desired the woman in question. Perhaps Loki’s immediate fears were not _entirely_  without basis. But they are not callow youths anymore.) “Put your silver tongue to use, brother.” A beat. “Er… in manners beyond those you have thus far.”

“I assure you, Jane Foster will not respond to conventional wooing.”

“Why not? She obviously cares for you.”

“ _Caring_  is insufficient. I will not tolerate anything less than her requiring my attention as I require hers.”

“Then strengthen her esteem by offering what she most desires: a free rein to explore our world as she will.”

“Oh, yes, that’s _brilliant_. That’s a _tremendous_  idea. And _then_  what am I to do once she no longer needs my guidance?”

“Brother, it is a risk you must take — for if you continue to cage her in, she will certainly grow to resent you.”

Loki glances sideways. “You speak with such authority,” he says, half-amused, half-contemptuous. “ _You_ , who have never even attempted to keep a female happy for more than a few sequential nights. What makes Thor so certain he knows better than I?”

Thor claps his brother on the back hard enough to make him stagger. “Because,” he replies, “ _Thor_  is not the one so pathetically in love.”

“ _What?_ ” He jerks away and raises a warning finger. “No. No, no, no. Don’t begin dragging some flight of ridiculous romanticism into this— I _suffer_  only from a _very_  irritating _affliction_  that has resulted from an absurd series of circumstances which have been entirely out of my— will you _stop laughing_ , you oaf!” 

Oh, if only such confessions could be viewed in anything other than strictest confidence. Darcy Lewis would adore this. “As you say, Loki.” (Always so perceptive about everyone but himself.) “But if _my_  advice fails you, you can always turn to Mother instead. We both know she would be _elated_  to provide her assistance.”

And Thor leaves his baby brother sputtering helplessly in the tower.

There truly are _innumerable_  advantages to being the eldest.

 

 

 

 


End file.
